


Project: Noah's Ark

by HigherMagic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Death, Dubious Morality, Hostage Situations, Hybrids, Lion!Sam, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Shrike!Castiel, Spider!Dean, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 06:57:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Project: Noah's Ark is a secret government program designed to mix humans with the genetic coding of animals, both furthering the war efforts and to give humanity a fighting chance against disease, famine, and anything else Mother Earth can throw at them. The Winchesters are missing, having fled the agency and killing anything that tries to bring them back: Castiel, the Shrike, is E.D.E.N.'s fifth attempt to subdue the runaways that threaten the entire operation, and he is determined to hunt them down. But there may be more to Sam and Dean's story than what a manila folder will tell him, if only he would stop trying to kill them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the wonderful artwork done by evian_fork on LJ or lizellysking on Tumblr.

[Art link](http://evian-fork.livejournal.com/146899.html)

When the Shrike found the Wolf, he was in a puddle of his own blood. The Shrike's lips twisted, cool blue eyes assessing the scene before him as he crouched down, fingers dipping into the puddle of red surrounding the Wolf's head, his gaze meeting the almost accusing, whited-out stare of the other creature as he licked at the blood.

"Damned fool," he muttered, rolling his eyes and smearing his bloodied fingertips across the Wolf's eyelids and his deteriorated gaze. He'd been dead for a while, if the lack of coloration in his iris was any indication.

The body was unresponsive, naturally, and so the Shrike huffed out another breath and stood. There was a tarp nearby, as well as ropes – the Wolf had been almost clever, trying to trap them between himself and the water by the marina – and so he could make a relatively easy time of wrapping the body of the Wolf up tight and hauling the corpse towards his car.

He dialed Mother on the way. "He's dead," he reported upon her answer, eyes focused forward as he effortlessly navigated the sparse traffic near the marina, the rain beating down on his windshield hardly a bother for his excellent eyesight. "Gutted like a fish by the lake."

Mother cursed softly, the sound of her fist slamming against her desk enough to make the Shrike smirk to himself. She had a temper and a half on her, Mother did. "They're getting better," she noted, and the Shrike assumed that she had meant to say it under her breath, but he heard anyway. "Are you disposing of the body now?"

"Personally," he replied, with no small amount of satisfaction and eagerness. He had never particularly liked the Wolf: the creature had taken a lot of credit for his kills and eaten the carrion himself. No one cared if the 'pretty little bird' had done most of the work. "This is the fourth they've killed." He knew because he was keeping count; it was his job to find those undercover, to find the bodies of those taken out – to find those that died hunting others down.

Mother sighed. He could imagine her rubbing the bridge of her nose in that exhausted way she did. "Alright, alright," she finally conceded, in a way that made his fingers tighten on the steering wheel of his car, straighten his back in readiness. "You're up, Castiel. Take the Winchesters down – alive for processing and rehabilitation, if you can. If you can't…"

He pulled up outside of an old warehouse, cutting the engine, and disconnected the phone to hold up to his ear so that the call could continue. "I won't let you down," he promised, eager to be on his way, but first he had to take care of the Wolf.

"Call me with any new developments," Mother said, before hanging up, and he grinned to himself, pocketing his phone again as he went to the trunk and unlocked it, hoisting the corpse of the Wolf into his arms and then over one shoulder.

His spirits were high, entering his personal nest – even the rain slowly seeping in through the corners couldn't dampen his mood, as he kicked haylage and mulch towards the edges to stop the leaks. Inside there were no lights, but the Shrike's eyes were sharp and so he did not need much light to see by. He knelt down, unwrapping the Wolf with the same kind of manic glee as a child on Christmas day, throwing the tarp and rope to one side when he was finished.

The Wolf had been a bulky man, muscled and brawny. Still, the Shrike had little trouble hoisting him upwards and then impaling him onto two metal spikes that stuck forward through his neck and through his stomach. Gas escaped the body at the puncture wounds in a vulgar noise that made the Shrike grimace in distaste, but the preparation now meant that it would be ready in time for his mate to see it.

He smiled at the thought, gently brushing his fingers down the side of the Wolf's face. Next to him was the body of the Hawk, and on his other side the pale figure of the She-Hyena. Strung up above the trio hung the dismembered parts (or at least all the parts that he could find) of Mother's first attempt to kill the Winchesters – the Owl.

He hummed gently in pleasure at the sight – the two wayward brothers would make wonderful additions to his collection. "My turn," the Shrike sing-songed, raising his hand in a mock-salute towards the staring face of the Wolf, before he turned and climbed back into his car. The rain was an almost soothing patter against the roof and around him as he turned and meandered his way back to the Interstate. Mother would have forwarded him all the information he needed, and it would be ready for him as soon as he could be bothered to find a motel with decent internet.

All it all, it was shaping out to be a pretty damn good day.

 

"Sam, _Sammy –_ I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Dean, it's okay. It's okay – I promise it's okay, just -."

Some days, Dean just really, really hated.

Days when all he could think about was the scent of blood and sweat, the feeling of a warm body struggling hard beneath him, days when the idea of licking along the tendons in some unwitting person's neck drove him to distraction, or when it was all he could do not to curl his nails into someone's skin and _rip_.

Those days made the ones between seem like distant, idyllic fantasies, mere wisps of smoke to curl around him at night and pray with whatever strength he had left that the next day wouldn't be the same.

Sam called them 'Rut' days. Dean had a few other colorful words for them, too.

Regardless of what they called those days, they were the same; Dean, waking up in a cold sweat with his hands shaking with adrenaline, eyes sharp and glowing an unnatural green to mark him as something _other_ , lips curling back to bare teeth that were curved and sharp like those of a wild cat, and when Dean woke up like this all Sam could do was bow to him.

It ended the same way too – Dean with his teeth at Sam's neck, his nails – too-long and too-sharp, digging bleeding punctures into Sam's wrists and flanks – raking along his little brother's golden skin, his body covering Sam's as though he intended to envelop Sam completely while he fucked him as brutally as he could hold himself back for. He would never willingly hurt Sam – never wanted to, never would – but Sam wasn't made like he was. Sam couldn't make slick, didn't get wet like Dean could, didn't have hormones built into him to relax his muscles and make it easier. Everything Dean did, Sam felt, and his brother's low, pained whines were enough evidence for Dean of just how acutely he felt them.

Dean closed his eyes, burying his face against the side of Sam's neck, sweaty hair and moist skin all he could feel, all he could smell, pressing his hips flush against Sam's and squeezing his wrists tightly as he did so to make sure his brother stayed down. Sam was pliant beneath him, submitting in the way he knew Dean needed on days like this, when mating instinct went into overdrive and everything smelled like a bitch in heat. Sam shivered in a whole-body movement, goose bumps breaking out along his forearms when Dean breathed out, causing the older man to smile in a mix of relief and triumph; even like this, Dean knew how to play Sam's body to any tune he liked.

He curled his lips back, nipping at the meat of Sam's shoulder as he pulled out slowly until he could feel the slight catch of Sam's rim against him, and slide back inside hard enough to make Sam jolt and moan softly. Dean shifted his grip, instead lacing his fingers with Sam's and felt his little brother squeeze his fingers as Dean managed to keep himself relatively gentle, his teeth at Sam's back the only real threat now that the violence thrumming through him had momentarily passed.

"You're so gorgeous like this," he whispered, voice hardly more than an exhale now because he was trying to control the snarl that threatened to let loose. He could hear the muffled sound Sam let out at that, knew his brother was likely biting his lower lip to keep his own growls silent. " _Fuck_." He bit out the word, thrusting in again, squeezing his eyes tightly shut at the flutter of muscles around him he received for it. "Love you when you're – so good, Sammy, I'm so sorry -."

Sam could hear what Dean couldn't say in between the words; _I'm sorry I'm made like this_ , and _I'm sorry that you're suffering for it_ , and _I love you_ , and he opened his mouth to, once again, reassure Dean, because it _was_ okay and he knew Dean needed to hear it, but that was one more thing that made them different – for every word Sam needed to hear, Dean needed to feel it. He was the more tactile brother.

Sam tilted his head the other way so that he was facing Dean, drawing his arms in and nuzzling against Dean's head until his older brother lifted up enough that he could fit his head underneath Dean's. "It's alright, Dean," he murmured, earning a soft, choked-sounding noise from the older creature, even as Dean rocked into him again and Sam gasped at the feeling. Dean was close, he knew it as surely as he knew his own name; Dean could never look him in the eye when he was like this, but when his orgasm came crashing into him his brother almost always sought out Sam's mouth to muffle the sound of his triumphant, dominant snarl.

Dean breathed out, pressing his forehead against Sam's temple, trying to lose himself in Sam's sweat and the feel of his body, pushing up hard and hot underneath him in an almost insistent, demanding way. He knew Sam didn't get hard from this, didn't enjoy it – after a while he had stopped trying. But that never stopped Sam from freely bending to Dean's will on Rut days; because it was yet one more necessary evil they both had to deal with.

Sam fought a hand free, bringing it up to gently lace his fingers through the short hair at the back of Dean's head, and turned his face to gently rub his nose against Dean's affectionately, earning a small, half-grimace-half-smile from his brother as Dean finally went still above him, his mouth opening against the skin of Sam's jaw as he groaned lowly, hips pressed flush, body trembling. When the Rut was over, it was like Dean collapsed from the inside, everything spilling out until he was nothing more than a breathing weight against Sam's back.

Sam turned his head a little more, though it hurt to do and he wouldn't be able to keep the position for long, and pressed his lips chastely against Dean's slack mouth. The fingers still linked with his hand tightened at the kiss.

After another long, blissfully still moment, Dean shifted. The sound that broke the silence when they separated made Dean grimace, flinching from it, but Sam was used to it by now – used to the feeling of unnatural slickness against his thighs from Dean's sweat and semen, used to the subtle but unpleasant twinge in his ass when he tried to move. He went to the bathroom, leaving Dean alone because Dean always needed a moment after to quell his urges again, to center and ground himself in the reality once more, and cleaned himself up as best as he could bring himself to do, splashing his face with water and rubbing a damp towel down his thighs.

When he returned, Dean was sprawled under the sheets of their second bed – the bed that they actually used for sleeping. His back was to Sam, staring towards the door, and his breathing was even if a little too even and slow to be him in his dream state. He was still awake.

Sam approached the bed slowly, going out of his way to make noise, and gently nudged the bed with his knee. Dean didn't move – he wouldn't. Sam smiled to himself, tired and pleased that he wouldn't have to coax his mate into allowing him into their bed tonight. He crawled over Dean, pushing at his shoulder until Dean rolled onto his back, the green of his iris no longer glowing so unnaturally brightly, but settled into their regular mix of shale and gold and emerald.

Dean's expression was tight, tense, just waiting for this to be the day – the day that Sam finally knew he took it too far, demanded he get help, turn himself in for _rehabilitation,_ whatever-the-fuck else – but Sam simply smiled at him, brushing his sweaty hair back from his face, and leaned down for another kiss, this one deeper and wetter and more of what they were both craving.

Dean melted into it, his hands coming up to loosely thread through Sam's hair and wrap around his shoulders, and Sam's arms curled under Dean's shoulders to hold him close as he laid their bodies flush together. Sam poured all of what Dean would never let him say into that kiss – never let him because tomorrow could be the day Dean took it too far, or the day one of the Hunters finally managed to kill one or both of them. Never let him because there weren't enough words in the English language for all that Dean loved his little brother, his mate, so what was the point?

He shivered underneath Sam, though, his legs instinctively spreading out to make room for Sam, even though the sheet still blocked them from each other. Sam knew, if he pushed the barriers apart and reached between Dean's legs, his brother would be soaked through, wet and open and ready for him, but Rut days were days Sam couldn't have Dean like he so desperately wanted – not if he wanted to keep his head.

Sighing, Sam pulled back, because if they kept going he would most likely try, threat of death or not. He rubbed his nose against Dean's, glad when Dean finally smiled and rolled his eyes mockingly. Sam didn't mind. He wrapped his arms around Dean when his brother turned back onto his side, eyes on the door.

"Sleep," he murmured to the nape of Dean's neck, holding him as close as he could with the blankets still between them, and pulled the far end back over his own body so that Dean could grab onto the far corner, wrapping Sam tight as though he was cocooned. It was the only way Dean could sleep: knowing that Sam had no way of getting out of bed without his knowledge.

Dean huffed softly at that, and Sam imagined him rolling his eyes again. The image made him smile, stroking a hand up and down Dean's arm as he felt his brother finally begin to relax, and softly purr.

 

 

By the end of the third night, the Shrike had both of their files memorized, and he was closing in.

They were Sam and Dean Winchester. Sired and birthed by the same two parents, four years apart. They had been intended for the Greater Felines program given their father's size, strength and military service reflecting a solitary but vicious fighting style. It was common that nature and nurture were paired together in instances like this.

Dean had been born, healthy and apparently promising. Then Sam. By the relative ages of twelve and eight it was clear that Sam was the more dominant brother, bigger than Dean had been at his age and more prone towards aggression in an argument than other tactics. Mother had been disappointed, to say the least – they'd had high hopes for Dean, but with Sam being the more promising brother, it was likely that he would kill Dean once they both reached maturity and leave E.D.E.N. one hybrid short.

Mother wouldn't have that.

The Shrike liked to refer to him as Spider now. It was, after all, almost fitting. They'd tried an experimental pre-pubescent genetic mix instead of the usual in-utero alterations in an attempt to guide Dean's qualities away from the feline and more towards an arachnid. After all, Dean might not have been the strongest or most aggressive brother, but he didn't need to be. They could make something useful out of him.

Dean had been their first post-natal success in that particular field.

So he was dealing with a Lion and a Spider. Two species that he would have never have pegged for cohabitation or partnership. Perhaps the human part of them kept their bond strong. The Shrike almost laughed at the thought – it hadn't stopped him from slaughtering his nest mates as soon as he had the strength to, despite the fact that he had been the youngest, the latest to hatch.

He was momentarily distracted from his drive by his phone ringing, and answered, eyes still on the road. "Yes?"

"Castiel." Instinctively his lips quirked up in a smile at Mother's voice. "Have you found them yet?"

"I am still a six-hour drive away from their last known location, but once I get there it shouldn't take long. Is there a problem?" he asked, momentarily going tense because damn it, _she'd_ assigned him this case, and it was _his_ now. He'd _earned_ it.

"No, not at all," Mother replied, and he relaxed somewhat, stretching his fingers from the grip they'd taken on the steering wheel and smoothing over the small indents that his strength had left behind. "I was simply thinking about how we might reward you should you succeed, Castiel."

After a moment, he frowned, pulling over on the side of the road and putting his hazards on. This was clearly a conversation that would require his complete attention. "What do you mean?"

"I mean the subject of your mate, Castiel," Mother replied gently, as though trying to explain the cosmos to a small child, and the Shrike blinked, staring at his phone in shock though he knew Mother couldn't see him. "You will be twenty-eight soon, and with a recent kill you will be very attractive to her, I'm sure. We can put you together as soon as you successfully detain the Winchesters."

Slowly, a smile broke across the Shrike's face as he turned his attention towards the road again, watching the steady repeat of lights flaring past his car, no one stopping to see if he needed help because no one helped anyone anymore. Not in this kind of world. Breathing out steadily, he placed his hands against the steering wheel again and turned back onto the road. "What is her name?" he asked.

"Meg," came Mother's reply.

"Meg," he repeated, nodding to himself at the name. "I look forward to meeting her."

 

 

There were some days that were almost perfect. Waking up with Dean's body turned against his, his brother's soft exhales against Sam's chest, they were almost good enough to erase the malignant memory of Rut days. Dean didn't used to have them before they began to fuck with his genetic coding, forced him between so many species and instincts that it was hard to tell which way was up some days, who presented a threat or a meal or a means of release from each other.

Sam had known Dean his entire life; he'd gotten good at telling which days would be which before Dean even woke up. Today would be an alright day – he might have to let Dean Rut again tonight, to work off any excess, but today would still be a good day. With that knowledge, he leaned down to kiss at his brother's warm, slack mouth, hand cupping Dean's jaw to make sure his big brother didn't pull away just yet.

Dean woke quickly in the mornings, and soon he was kissing Sam back, gentle grip knotting in Sam's thick hair, body arching forward. "Mornin', Sammy," he rasped, voice hoarse with restrained snarls and ragged with suppressed emotion, and Sam leaned in to kiss him again.

"Morning," he replied, sleep-warm and happy. "You hungry?"

Dean smiled, humming as he nodded, before he turned back around and rolled out of bed. "Yeah, starvin', actually," he answered, going to their duffle bags and pulling out a relatively clean pair of jeans, pulling them on and fastening them before taking last night's shirt and slipping it over his head. Sam followed suit, wincing at the dull ache in his ass when Dean wasn't looking. "We've gotta get moving pretty damn soon."

Sam nodded. He could feel it too, like an itch under his skin – unfortunately both of them had inherited, or been 'gifted with' or whatever, an uncontrollable wanderlust. The fact that they were hunted from all corners of the United States may have had something to do with it. "Breakfast, then we hit the road?"

"Sounds good," Dean replied, stuffing the leftover clothes from yesterday into his bag before pulling out enough clothes for Sam to finish getting dressed, and shouldering the both of them to load them back up into the car. He looked good today, Sam decided, nodding to himself once he finished his subtle assessment of his brother. If he kept Dean distracted today, it might turn into a really awesome one.

When they were both settled into their car and had put a good amount of distance between themselves and their soiled motel room, Sam pulled out the newspaper he'd swiped from the front desk, opening up just enough that it wouldn't spoil Dean's view of the mirrors, but so that he could easily flick through to any interesting stories.

The car was relatively quiet, muted rock coming from the speakers as Dean searched out a viable place for food along the way, when Sam cleared his throat. "There's been no report of that guy's body," he said thoughtfully.

Dean grunted noncommittally, pulling off the road into an exit that led to a diner sporting a sign for the best smoothies in town.

"You know, that hybrid guy we got," Sam added, pressing onward; "The one that was crossbred with a wolf or jackal or something. Absolutely no mention of him."

"Maybe they haven't found him yet."

"No, but Dean, get this," Sam said, hurriedly stepping out of the car when he saw that Dean wasn't going to sit around and wait for him to get to the point. They went inside, the cheery little bell above announcing their arrival, and passed three booths with various levels of occupation to find a new one at a wink and head jerk from the waitress. When they were seated, Dean pointedly looking at a menu and doing his best to ignore Sam's persistence, Sam spread the newspaper out in front of him. "There's not even a missing persons report, nothing about him whatsoever. We caused a lot of trouble back there, Dean. Why is no one talking about it?"

"Shit happens all the time that no one talks about, Sammy," Dean muttered with a roll of his eyes over the menu. "Us, for example."

"That's different and you know it."

"What're y'all havin' this morning?"

At once, the tenseness in Dean's shoulders melted away as he plastered a charming smile onto his face, setting his menu down and sliding it over for Sam to see. "Hey, can I get some coffee – black – and the short stack with a side of bacon?"

"You got it, Hun," the waitress replied with a smile, jotting down Dean's order and turning to Sam. "And for you?"

"Uh, coffee with milk and the heart smart platter, please," Sam replied, setting the menu back down and ignoring Dean's smirk when he refused to meet the waitress' eyes.

"You got it. Comin' right up." And with that she sashayed away, pen stuck into the messy bun at the back of her head. Dean watched her go, for no more reason than he knew it would piss Sam off – they both knew from personal experience and research that they'd likely never be attracted to purebred humans. Too much of a genetic cocktail to guarantee strong children – if they could even breed viable children in the first place.

It didn't stop Dean having some fun, though. "Why do you even care if no one found the body?" he asked, raising an eyebrow and finally returning his attention to his sullen younger brother. He had seemed in such good spirits earlier, and Dean felt a small thread of guilt over being an obvious damper on Sam's good mood.

"They didn't find that bird, either," Sam muttered, folding the newspaper up again and setting it to one side. "Or the others."

Dean pressed his lips together, leaning forward and bracing his forearms on the table. "So, what, someone's cleaning up our messes?" he asked, tone clearly telling Sam what he thought of _that_ theory.

"I'm just saying maybe we should be a little more on our guard. That dog guy happened, what, three days ago? Someone's catching up to us, Dean. We should at least be prepared for it, maybe even change up our pattern a little."

"Go into hiding?" Dean's words had a bite to them, then, low and dangerous, the unnatural brightness in his eyes momentarily flaring. It struck Sam, once again, that Dean wasn't quite over his Rut yet, and he had known that, but the reminder made him tense up for a moment, shivering and lowering his eyes from Dean's.

"That might be what it takes," Sam said, because he knew he was right.

Dean huffed, sitting back as the waitress brought their food, cheery flash of teeth finally breaking the tension between the two brothers again. They were silent as they ate, practically inhaling their food because the body of the dog had had enough money on it to pay for food and a motel room, sure, but it wouldn't last, and who knew when their next meal might be. Dean only ate three of the four pancakes along with his bacon, and he made sure Sam ate everything as well as finishing off the last pancake.

Then they were off again, as far along the highway as Dean could stand to drive.

 

 

One week later, the Shrike had finally caught up to them. Perhaps they had tried to hide away, maybe they'd gotten tired of hick diners and dirty country roads (Mother knows he certainly had), but he ended up finding them fringing the outskirts of a large city. From his perch above their heads he could see them easily.

The Spider looked sick, haggard and worn. There was a paleness to him that wasn't in his case file – too long hunting at night and not enough time sprawled out under the warm rays of the sun as the Lion in him craved. He had lost a significant amount of weight and it showed in his face and around his stomach, but the muscles that he still possessed made him look broad and strong. To the Shrike's superior eyes, the Spider's own green-gold-grey mix were a beautiful, glowing shade, piercing and powerful and altogether what one of Mother's own should look like.

The Lion looked in much better shape than his brother, large muscles and shiny hair marking him apart from the other man. He sat hunched and guarded while the Spider spread out, the picture of ease and flashing white teeth in his smile. The Shrike was sure that he had found Sam and Dean Winchester – there was no mistaking the strength in those two, and although he could not see the Lion's face he was sure Sam was just as beautiful and deadly as his brother.

Smiling to himself, goose bumps rising on his skin in anticipation, the Shrike pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number of the disposable phone he'd attached to the bottom of the table Sam and Dean were sat at – he'd put a phone under every one, having caught their scent around the area and figuring that they would eventually stop at the 'All-American Diner: Best Pie in the City'. Dean, it seemed, had a sweet-tooth.

He watched with barely controlled glee as the two hybrids jumped at the sound of the phone, Sam ducking under to investigate while Dean raised his eyes to try and scour out the caller. The Spider was tensed, the Lion unsure and confused, and he watched their mouths move as they tried to determine whether to answer or not – the Shrike was prepared to call as many times as he needed to. One of them would hear him eventually.

 

 

"Sam," Dean finally whispered, eyes focused away from his younger brother, his nostrils flaring out in an attempt to find the same scent that clung faintly to the cell phone. "Answer it."

Sam frowned, mouth twisting in anxiety, but obediently answered and held the phone up to his ear. "Who is this?" he asked.

"This can go one of two ways," came a smooth, low voice from the other end – one that instinctively set Sam's teeth on edge, close his eyes before the golden hue of a wildcat could come out and reveal itself to the general populace. "You surrender to me now, and you might live, or you can run, and I'll catch you, and you definitely won't."

Dean's head snapped to face Sam – he'd heard the answer. Of course he had. And immediately his eyes narrowed, jaw clenching, before he held his hand out for the phone. Sam pushed it away.

"You're awfully sure of yourself," he replied, raising an eyebrow in Dean's direction and jerking his head just slightly towards the innards of the restaurant. Dean followed his eyes, drumming his fingers on the table twice to indicate that he'd understood.

"Don't even think about it," the Shrike hissed, hand tightening around the phone. "I do hope you're not planning on running – I think you'd be much more fun alive than dead."

Sam swallowed, eyes widening and looking to Dean – again, Dean had heard. _He can see us,_ Sam mouthed to his brother, just in case, and Dean drummed his fingers again. Knowing that Dean was on the lookout now, Sam allowed himself to force a relaxed posture, hoping that wherever the other creature was, he could see that they no longer intended to run – if he had a weapon aimed at them, neither of them would get out of the way in time, and it could potentially endanger civilians.

"So what are you?" Sam asked, doing his best to distract the nameless man while Dean's eyes carefully scoured the streets, the windows in the building opposite, the roofs – anywhere and everywhere a person could perch or hide or melt into the shadows.

The Shrike cocked his head to one side, eyes narrowing down at the pair. "I see you're doing this the hard way," he murmured, just as the glowing green eyes of the Spider locked on his own. Immediately Dean was on his feet and the Shrike cursed, shying back into the relative shelter of the showroom apartment he had chosen as his perch.

They'd seen him.

"Damn it," he muttered, shutting his phone and sliding it back into his pocket. Plan B, then.

 

 

"Sam," Dean said lowly, reaching for the phone again and Sam gave it to him.

"Line's gone dead."

Dean hummed, spinning the phone around in his hand and accessing the 'Recent Calls' list. "And the number was blocked." He looked up again, back towards the window. "I saw him, Sammy. He was lookin' right at us."

"Can you feel him?" Sam asked, getting to his feet and following Dean's gaze. He could see no movement from within, but that didn't mean the man wasn't too fast for them, or hadn't moved at all. Maybe he wasn't afraid of them. Maybe there was no reason to run.

Dean was silent for a moment, before he let out a soft sound of frustration. "There's too many people," he muttered, glaring around at the milling crowd as though personally offended by their existence. "Come on – let's go back to the room and get the Hell outta dodge."

Sam nodded in agreement, following Dean as he turned and hurried away from the building the strange man had supposedly inhabited. He felt a gaze on the back of his neck like a physical weight, but forced himself not to turn around to look because there were a lot of people and even a split second could mean Dean's retreating form was lost in the crowd.

Just as that thought crossed his mind, Dean ran across a road just as the lights changed, and Sam was forced to halt as the street was suddenly full of vehicles, loud horns a grating roar in his ears. "Dean!" he yelled, but could not see his brother, didn't know if Dean had heard him and stopped too. By the time the road cleared and Sam was able to dash across it, there was no sign of Dean. Panic began to well up in Sam, as he tried to use his superior height and sense of smell to spot Dean out, but there were too many people and some of them looked too much like Dean from behind and Sam had no idea where to even start.

"Dean!" he yelled again, only to hear a startled hiss in return. It was barely audible over the hubbub of those surrounding him, but he followed the sound anyway – where he had thought it'd come from. When he reached a vendor sporting fresh fruit, some of which were smeared with a sticky, tacky layer of webbing, Sam knew he was on the right track. He yelled for his brother again, earning several startled looks as those around him scattered, and finally – _God,_ finally – he heard a low grunt, the sounds of fighting.

He took off for it, pushing a few unwitting people out of the way with a rushed apology, but he had to get to Dean. Dean was in trouble. There was an alleyway to his left that was mostly blocked with two large dumpsters, but Sam easily leapt onto the edge of them, scaling along the sides and dropping down into the shadow-swamped dead end of the alleyway.

His eyes glowed yellow, enhanced cat-sight helping him see in the darkness.

"Ah, Sam. How kind of you to join us."

The dim light from above glinted off of the barrel of a revolver, which was pointed squarely at Dean's chest. Another pistol was aimed at Sam, and the younger Winchester snarled at the sight of it, tense and afraid for his brother because Dean was pinned between the gun and the side of the alleyway. Sam could smell blood, and knew because it was so familiar that it was Dean's, and when his brother tilted his head just right Sam could catch the smear of it across his nose.

"Dean," he murmured, aching to reach out to his brother and mate, but the dark heart of the gun's muzzle kept him back. "You okay?"

"Peachy," Dean snapped out, eyes narrowed and glowing at the other man.

"You were both meant to be smarter than this," the nameless man tsked, shaking his head, tone patronizing. "This is what happens when you skip out on your training, boys."

Dean raised his chin, but otherwise remained silent. "If you're going to kill us, just do it," Sam spat out, hating the tense impasse that the three of them had found themselves in – as soon as the man moved, Dean would be on him, of that Sam had no doubt. It would just be a matter of finding the perfect moment. The fact that Dean refused to look Sam's way was a hindrance, but they'd gotten out of worse situations before.

The man hummed, cocking his head to one side. "Well, you did agree to do it the hard way," he conceded, and Sam's blood ran cold at the sound of the hammer of the gun pointed at Dean being cocked back. Dean didn't move – not even a twitch – but Sam didn't have the same control, the same deadly resignation and lack of care for Dean's life.

"No, don't -."

"Sammy, stop it," Dean finally said, tired and weary, his shoulders sagging as he leaned his head back against the wall. Sam snarled at him in anger – how could Dean just let it end like this? All of their running, their fighting to be free, the lives they'd taken and the price they'd paid to be out from under the thumb of their organization, and Dean would be taken out by another freak like them with a gun? _No,_ Sam wouldn't allow it. He -.

Sam and the nameless man went tense at the same time, shallow breathing the only sound between the three men. It was then that Sam realized what Dean was doing – one more thing that separated them, that made Dean more powerful, deadlier, and weaker at the same time.

Pheromones.

He could sense them starting to affect the other male, too – already the gun was starting to lower, low gasp and exaggerated inhale accompanying the answering wave of testosterone, a male posturing to a prospective mate.

That was when Dean struck.

The gun aimed at Sam went off a second too late, aimed above Sam's head at the open air beyond, as Dean lifted the man's arm, snapping the elbow over his shoulder and threw him over his body to the ground. The man let out a rough curse, hissing and swinging his gun to aim for Dean's head, but Dean was faster and had a foot planted on his wrist, crushing down with spiteful force until the grip on his gun loosened and the weapon clattered to the floor.

Sam raced to catch it, aiming it for the man's head. He'd never held a gun before – never needed to learn – but the threat of it seemed enough to stop any reaction. Dean held out his hand for the gun and Sam immediately handed it over, breathing out heavily because the stink of Dean's pheromones was still heavy in the air and he desperately needed to clear his head.

"Now," Dean murmured mockingly, aiming with a steady hand at the man's head, "this can go one of two ways. Surrender, and I might let you live."

The man laughed. "Fuck you, Spider," he snarled.

Dean's mouth twisted and Sam braced himself for the bang of the gun, stepping forward and bracing himself behind Dean so that his brother could feel his warmth. What he was unprepared for was for Dean to suddenly kneel down and slam the blunt bottom of the handle of the gun against the guy's temple, knocking him unconscious. New blood exploded in the air enough to wipe away the lingering scent of Dean's pheromones and Sam licked his lips, shoulders relaxing as Dean pushed himself off of the man's limp body and stepped far enough away that he couldn't be reached.

Dean threw the gun to one side and kicked the other away. "Let's get him back to the room," he finally said after a moment.

Sam looked up at his brother, confused when Dean simply reached down again to haul the man's body over one shoulder. "Why?" he asked, coming forward despite himself to help Dean when his brother seemed to be struggling, taking the surprisingly small weight of the man's body from Dean's shoulders. "We should just leave him here."

"If we kill him, another will take his place," Dean answered with a one-shouldered shrug. "If we leave him here, he'll come after us again. We keep him alive, find out all he knows, then we kill him." He smiled again, showing teeth that had rings of blood in the arcs of his incisors, and pulled Sam in for a kiss. Sam could taste the coppery blood, rich and thick in Dean's mouth – his own brother's blood, and he could feel the snarl building in his throat knowing the man he was carrying had caused Dean to hurt, to bleed. "Simple, Sammy. Come on."

 

 

The Shrike woke up with his elbow throbbing, the taste of blood in his mouth, and to the sound of an argument. For a long moment he didn't pay attention to the words; merely let them be drowned out by his own body's protests as he carefully flexed his wrists and found that they both could move. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his jaw, hissing at the flare of pain up his arm, but apparently the Spider or the Lion had reseated the joint before dumping him onto the floor because he could wiggle all of his fingers and, while his arm protested against movement, it would still move.

He was bound sitting upright, back braced against the hard edge of a radiator, his hands behind him. A careful flexing of his wrists let him know that it was with two plastic-like cords, likely zip-ties – one around each wrist and interlocking in the middle. His mouth twisted at that – the runaways were smart, binding him like that; everyone in the organization was trained in how to break out of them if there was only one.

He tugged, but could not bring his hands away from the radiator. Either a third or the interlocking sections of the two zip-ties were keeping him bound there. Feeling along the edges of the radiator, the Shrike could not feel any loose nails or sharp objects that he could use to fray or pick at the ties, and a careful shift of his body told him that the Winchesters had taken some, if not all, of his more closely concealed weapons.

He ran his tongue along his teeth, searching for a source of the blood he could taste, but all that he was rewarded with was the tacky-dry trail at the side of his mouth. It was distracting, but a brief glimpse into his memory told him that the pistol whipping he'd received must have drawn blood.

"Look at this. 'Castiel Novak'. What kind of name is that?"

Finally the aches of his body were dulled down enough that, as he categorized them, he could ignore them in favor of listening in on the Winchesters' conversations. Not that they were making any attempt to hush their tones or hide from him what they were talking about. It was no effort to let the back of his head rest against the wall, breathe out a heavy sigh, and open his eyes enough to take in his surroundings.

The wallpaper was almost offensive to his eyes, and he took a moment to glare at the cheery green-yellow-orange clash of colors that somehow someone thought would match the polka-dot bedspread and grey shag carpeting. It felt rough against his – bare – feet and the Shrike curled his toes in it, grimacing in displeasure at the gross color it had taken on with an undoubted many years and events of living in this motel room.

The Winchesters were sat at a wooden table facing a television, the couch and the television creating a triangle with Castiel at the isosceles point, rifling through what the Shrike was sure were his wallet and phone and passport. He was mildly pleased to see that the blow to Dean's face had caused dark circles to appear under his eyes, the area around his nose red and swollen. The Spider was glaring at his phone, lips pursed in thought, brow furrowed, and the Shrike had a fleeting thought that when he was concentrating, his eyes looked so much brighter.

"It's password protected," he chimed in, earning a swift, baleful glare from both Sam and Dean. The looks they sent him made his lips curl up into a smug smirk – they may have had him tied up but he was _not_ some cowering bitch in a corner and if they wanted to try and beat anything out of him, well, they might as well be angry enough to be stupid.

"Yeah, we kinda figured that," Dean bit back, baring his teeth in a brief threatening gesture towards the Shrike before turning his attention back to the phone. "Lucky we know a guy."

"Dean." Sam's soft warning cut in front of the Shrike's raised eyebrow, chin lifting in interest at the possible mention of allies or contacts the Winchesters might have had. Anyone seen to be helping these fugitives would be dealt with swiftly by Mother's hand, he was sure.

The two of them shared a look, Dean's eyes searching Sam's face before he sighed and rolled his eyes. "Fine."

"Are you two going to be long in figuring out what to do with me? Nature's calling," the Shrike muttered, loud enough that he was sure the Lion and Spider would hear him – they did, and his retort earned a disdainful snort from Dean, the older Winchester shoving himself to his feet and stalking over to the Shrike's prone form.

He was smart about it, prowling close to a meal that he wasn't sure was done kicking yet – coming from the Shrike's injured side where twisting to put pressure on his elbow would be more pain than it would be worth. The Shrike's mouth twisted in displeasure, tilting his head to observe Dean out of the corner of his eye as the Spider crouched down low against the Shrike's side. He went tense, upper lip curling back in a small snarl when Dean took his chin in hand, turning him so that they were facing each other and his injured elbow throbbed in protest.

"Here's the thing, Cas," the Spider murmured, all soft smiles and gentle voice, luring the Shrike's senses to dull and thin out with trust and acceptance. The Shrike hissed softly at the name – only Mother called him by his real name, and certainly not by a stupid shortened moniker or whatever the fuck Dean thought he could get away with calling him. "Sammy and I, well, we're kind of tired of being hunted down like runaway cattle, you know?"

"Maybe you should stop running," the Shrike hissed in response, baring his teeth in a grin when Dean's mouth twisted in dissatisfaction at the answer. The glow in his eyes was back – feral and fierce and it sent a hot shudder down the Shrike's spine in readiness for a fight.

But then, the expression melted away, and Dean matched his grin. "Don't make me break your other arm," he said dismissively, dropping the Shrike's chin and pushing himself languidly to his feet. "And there ain't nothin' wrong with your bladder, little bird – if nature's callin' you go right ahead and answer."

The Shrike's nose wrinkled in disdain at that answer. "Animals," he huffed, turning his face away as the Spider rejoined his brother on the couch. The two of them went back to picking through his belongings. Outside, the glow around the drawn curtains was beginning to dull and the Shrike's eyes, despite the fact that he had already been knocked out for several hours, were beginning to grow heavy with sleep. The particular species of bird he was bred with was not known for being nocturnal, and as a result Castiel often had trouble staying awake to concentrate when he knew it was getting dark outside. The light in the motel room was just dim enough to be soothing, not harsh enough to keep him awake, and he knew that whatever the Winchesters might decide to do with him, they would do it whether he was awake or not. There was no sense in draining his energy trying to stay awake – it would be better to rest, let his body heal as best he could, and try to make an escape when he had fully recovered.

If he was lucky, and very good, he might be able to carry their shredded bodies back to his display.

 

 

Hours later, the Shrike woke to complete darkness, and the same scent that had driven him to distraction in the alleyway when he had confronted the Winchesters.

The stink of natural pheromones was almost suffocating, a heavy taste in the back of his throat like honey and thick cream on summer fruit – sweet and crisp all at once, and before he knew it he was swallowing back an excess of saliva, shaking his head as if to clear it from the presence of one persistent, annoying bug.

It was black-dark, but even so the small thread of neon-light from outside the motel room gave the Shrike just enough contrast for his sharp eyes to see by. And he was able to clearly see – see the pale arch of the Spider's throat, the darkness around his eyes where the Shrike's punch had bruised his nose and likely broken it. He could see the relative darkness of the Lion's hands against his brother's skin, and when his nostrils flared wide he could smell the testosterone and pheromones that accompanied the stench of a mating pair in heat.

His upper lip curled back, and he turned his face away. So the rumors about them had been true – something must have gone truly wrong in their genetic make-up to turn such promising creatures into such an obvious dead-end mating. Maybe it was the fact that they were the only viable mates around with their lifestyle, or maybe the experimentation on Dean had twisted him so that they didn't even recognize each other as brothers anymore, but even so, mating instinct should drive them towards procreation and it was clear they wouldn't be able to breed like _that_.

"Animals," he muttered to himself, too low to hear over the slap of wet skin and dirty, bitten-back moans. As a sense, the Shrike's hearing wasn't his best, but it didn't need to be. He could still hear every dull thud of contact, the slight stick as they moved apart again. When he closed his eyes and smelled the blood, he could easily imagine Sam's nails digging into Dean's flesh and ripping, Lion's teeth at his mate's neck to stop Dean fighting back. Or perhaps Sam had inherited a cat's genitalia as well and that wasn't blood on the outside that he smelled – maybe if he cared enough to look, he would examine their bodies when they were strung up in his display.

He wasn't looking, and was doing his best not to smell too much either – the stench of blood and mating pheromones was making his mouth water in desire, dormant breeding instincts suddenly flaring up behind his eyes. Try as he might, though, he couldn't stop himself hearing them; the rough gasp Dean made to accompany every connection of their bodies; Sam's low snarls and harsh breathing and the subtle creaks of the bed; the way the thick, cheap comforters crunched up under Dean's hands.

And, worst and sweetest of all: the begging, the goading, the low animal noises that were not meant for him to overhear.

The soft, desperate, "Please, Sammy," whispered into the bedspread and earning a low, gentle soothing sound from the younger Winchester. The loving answer rumbling from Sam's chest like a purr.

"Let me, Dean, let me."

The harsh groan, stuttering of rhythm in the creaking of the bed, slide of sheets as Dean spread his legs wider and bowed his head, shoulders bunching with the weight of both of them.

"F- _fuck_ , Sam!"

The Shrike opened his eyes again at the sharp flare of salt suddenly in the air, and knew without looking that Dean must have orgasmed, driven over the brink by his brother's thrusts. He couldn't put a name to why he looked, then – he knew what had happened, didn't need to see it to believe – but he did anyway, eyes wide and enthralled at the splash of white around Sam's hand as he milked his brother through his orgasm, let Dean's seed soak into his fingers and drip onto the offensively-colored comforter below. The sheen of sweat on their bodies tinted them green and gold from the neon light outside.

Sam's other arm braced himself over Dean's back, forcing his brother to take both their weights, and their rhythm slowed. "Sam," Dean hissed out, half-desperate, voice lower than the Shrike had previously heard it and rough with restraint. "Don't stop. _Please_ don't -."

"'M gonna come soon, Dean – could shred you that way," Sam muttered in reply, his tone holding the impression that they'd had this conversation many times before. So maybe he had inherited a feline's penis. How fascinating.

Dean snarled at his brother, tilting his head so that he could see Sam out of the corner of his eye – it meant that they were both angled towards him, could potentially see him watching, and the Shrike quickly closed his eyes again. "Don't _care_." Rough grunt, slap of skin together; the Spider fucking himself back onto Sam's cock as the bed creaked in protest. "Deserve it. Come _on_ , Sammy."

The Lion must have acquiesced to his brother, because the creaking of the bed continued and the scent of blood mixed headily in with Dean's pheromones. It made the Shrike want to gag, the smell potent and making his mouth water and his cock thicken without his consent – what must it be like, he thought, to have a mate so willing that they would even let you shed their blood for your pleasure?

He doubted his own mate – Meg, who was waiting for him upon his victory – would be so accommodating. Birds weren't known for their self-sacrificing natures.

Then again, neither were spiders.

 

 

The next day, all three of them were woken by the Shrike's cell phone ringing.

Dean woke first, rolling out of bed quickly at the default alarm tone as it rang out through the small motel room. The Shrike winced at the sound – he'd been awake for a while by that point, fiddling more with his ties and trying to see if there were any weaknesses in the radiator around him, but with the Winchesters awake he forced his arms to relax and to pretend that he hadn't been up to anything shady while they slept.

Dean swept up the phone, glaring at the screen. Neither Sam nor Dean were dressed from the night before and the Shrike let his eyes roam over the naked skin bared to his sight. Without clothes, the Spider's physical deterioration was more prominent – the dark circles around his eyes seemed darker, somehow, with his pale skin to counteract them. He had a little bit of weight around his stomach, but the rest of him was muscle and the Shrike knew he was likely eating less to be sure his brother survived – it was one of the early signs that Mother had noted in Dean Winchester's development: protectiveness, self-sacrificial behavior.

Sam, by comparison, was well-muscled and tall, 'ripped', one could almost say, and much darker than his brother. His penis had small flecks of blood crusting around it, as well as buried into his pubic hair, and the Shrike's nose wrinkled in disgust at the reminder of what they'd been doing the night before.

"Who the fuck is 'Mother'?" Dean demanded, pulling the Shrike's attention away from his notes about the Winchesters' physical states. He crouched down in front of the Shrike, showing him the phone as though there could be any confusion about who was calling.

The Shrike bared his blood-lined teeth at them in a grin, and said nothing.

Dean cursed lowly, shoving himself to his feet again, and turned to Sam's worried face. "If he doesn't answer, they might get that somethin's up."

"Neither of us can mimic voices, Dean," Sam replied, exasperated.

The Spider's eyes flashed back to the Shrike, calculating as he grinned back at them. Then, Dean cursed, and flipped open the phone anyway, holding out his hand to stay Sam's protest. They shared a look and Sam slowly, reluctantly backed down, lips pressed in a thin line and brow furrowed as he watched Dean walk away, phone pressed tight to his ear.

The Shrike watched him go. He didn't say anything, naturally, but gave a small 'Hmm' of acknowledgement. His lips thinned out as he heard Mother talking on the other line, and cursed his own reticence: if he had a specific way of answering her, she would realize that it wasn't him on the phone.

He grinned, then, after a moment, and rested his head back against the radiator's edge. He tilted his head back, looking up at the ceiling, and began to whistle.

It wasn't a well-known tune, but one of his favorite nest mates (he'd killed him last) used to hum this little melody when the Shrike had trouble falling asleep. If Mother didn't recognize it, then it would be a waste of effort, but it also had the bonus of making Sam and Dean tense up, and if they tried to silence him then that would be another way of letting Mother know something was amiss.

Dean whirled around; eyes wide and motioning frantically his brother to shut him up, and Sam hurried to comply. The Shrike laughed when Sam, for lack of anything else to do, took a roll of socks from one of their duffles and shoved it into his mouth. The fabric was thick and dry (and, thankfully, smelled clean), and the Shrike growled and kicked his feet to try and force Sam away from him.

Dean abruptly hung up and the Shrike coughed the socks out. "That probably wasn't a good idea," he said, tone mocking as he raised a brow and shot Dean a look.

The older Winchester snarled at him, throwing the phone back onto the couch, and stalked towards the Shrike. "Here's the thing, _Cas_ ," he growled, settling his weight heavily across the Shrike's legs in a way that made him tense up, hissing in discomfort. Dean grabbed his chin, forcing their eyes to meet, and the Shrike made sure to communicate all of his hatred and disdain for the man through his eyes. "The only thing keepin' you alive is mine and Sammy's good will, you got that? So maybe next time we're in a bit of a situation, try _not_ to be a complete ass."

He raised his other brow, hoping that the move alone would convey just what he thought of _that_ idea.

Dean snarled, shoving his head back hard enough to crack against the radiator, another flare of pain hitting him hard behind the eyes. "Fuckin' corpse is what we're dealin' with, Sammy," he muttered, rising to his feet and going over to the couch where the Shrike's things were still spread out over the table in front. "Nothin' but empty shells for the fuckin' corporation to stuff full of _nothing._ "

"He's just doing his job, Dean," Sam replied, an edge of compassion there that made the Shrike tilt his head towards him, brows raised in surprise. Sam's eyes weren't on him though – his brow was furrowed, gaze focused on his brother's hunching back. "We were trained to do the exact same thing."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, and look where that got us."

He didn't say any more after that, and after a while Sam deflated as well, turning to dig through their duffles for new clothes, some of which he tossed at Dean, another set he pulled onto his own body – a pair of jeans and a t-shirt worn thin and loose around his neck. It made him seem bigger, somehow, but softer, Castiel thought. Easier to rip apart.

Sam grabbed the car keys, heading for the door. "Food?" he asked, and Dean grunted noncommittally. The Shrike tilted his head back against the radiator, ready to let his eyes drift closed, when the question came again. When he looked towards Sam, the younger Winchester was looking directly at him.

The Shrike licked his lips – he was hungry. Birds didn't eat much, but he had been away from his stash for a long time and was feeling the pangs deep in his stomach now that they had been brought to his attention. He nodded, once, and that apparently was enough for Sam, who smiled a little and left the motel room soon after.

Weird. He wouldn't have been nearly as accommodating.

The Shrike paused, shaking his head. _Mammals._


	2. Two

Sam was gone for about an hour and a half, and Dean seemed determined to glean every piece of information he could from the Shrike's possessions before resorting to actual interrogation, so the Shrike used the opportunity to catch up on the sleep he'd lost at night. It was difficult with the sun shining so obnoxiously brightly outside, but he must have dozed off at one point because he found himself stirring to the scent of meat and cheese.

Sam was sitting next to him, stirring what looked to be the contents of a bean and steak burrito in a bowl, the tortilla lying damp and limp along one side. He had a small plastic fork and was mixing the concoction of beans, meat, cheese and salsa altogether, and the Shrike tensed up when his stomach rumbled, loudly, at the sight of it.

It garnered the Lion's attention, and he looked up, smiling a little. "Open wide?" he half-asked, holding up a forkful of food, and while the Shrike wanted to rail against being treated like a child, spoon-fed like an invalid, he knew it was likely the only way they would let him eat, and you never turned down a meal when being held hostage. That was rule number one.

The food was still warm and wonderful to taste – just enough grease and fat in it to make it taste delicious, and the Shrike gave an appreciative little hum, swallowing quickly in an effort to get as full as possible.

Dean rolled his eyes at the display, snorting from where he was seated with a burger raised half-way to his mouth. "Great," he muttered. "You get your rocks off feedin' a serial killer, Florence?"

The Shrike frowned a little, his brain skimming through references and textbooks he had read as a child before coming up with an answer: Florence Nightingale, famous nurse. Treated wounded soldiers. He wanted to laugh at the comparison, but instead accepted the second spoonful Sam gave him, as well as a mouthful of tortilla that was offered.

"'S not like we can untie him," Sam replied curtly, rolling his eyes. "Said so yourself."

"I think the bastard would be more likely to talk if we starved him a little."

The Shrike swallowed his food, leveling a baleful glare at Dean. "Shove it up your ass, insect," he said, earning a surprised huff of laughter from Sam, the Lion's eyes widening as he looked over his shoulder to gauge his brother's reaction.

Dean seemed impressed, raising a beer in a mock salute to the Shrike. "Touché, Cas," he replied, and the Shrike's mouth twisted at the ridiculous shortening of his name – he didn't even like his name. The only one to call him by it anymore was Mother. But, given Dean's psychological test results, if he showed that it annoyed him, Dean would likely continue. The Shrike could only hope he would grow out of it or get bored.

"But I prefer the term 'Arachnid-American'."

He accepted more food from Sam until the burrito was almost finished, and he couldn't stomach another bite. He turned his face away and Sam took the food back, putting it in front of Dean, who finished it. Food was probably a luxury to them, the Shrike thought, noting that down because a hungry enemy was a distracted enemy. He'd take care to remember when Dean and Sam ate, who ate what and how much, for his escape.

Dean seemed intent on trying to decrypt his phone – it was an iPhone, a simple four-digit code to unlock, but even so there were thousands of possible combinations, and the Shrike knew he was in no danger of guessing too soon. Every third failure locked him out for another half hour, so it would take months for Dean to crack it through brute-force attacks alone.

When Sam came out of the bathroom, he slowly approached the couch on which his brother perched; nudging the overly-stuffed cushion with his knee, and Dean froze, letting the phone drop between his knees as he looked up at Sam.

The Shrike watched, sharp-eyed and attentive, but it didn't seem like either of them was even aware of his presence.

Dean swallowed, his eyes faintly glowing, and Sam nudged the couch again. "You feeling okay?" he asked, reaching forward slowly as Dean's eyes flickered between his face and his hand, the Spider pressing his lips together, fingers flexing, before the touch landed and Dean let himself lean into it.

He sighed, eyes closing briefly, and turned his head to press a kiss to Sam's wrist before pulling his face away, and Sam let his hand drop. "Feelin' fine," Dean replied gruffly, picking the phone back up and staring at it as though it was the most interesting thing in the world.

"Good," Sam replied, sitting down next to Dean on the couch and briefly rubbing the top of his head against his brother's shoulder. "I figure, you know," he began, speaking in lowered tones, "this guy probably had a car near the spot he ambushed us. Y'know, couldn't have us walking at gunpoint through the whole city. Maybe there's more stuff in there – address, registration, files. I don't know."

Dean hummed noncommittally, and Sam sighed, rubbing his forehead on Dean's shoulder again. "You gonna be okay for a while?"

"Jeez, Sam." Dean rolled his eyes. "I'll be fine. I feel fine." Sam nodded, pushing himself to his feet. "Just, you know, don't get caught or somethin'. Who knows how many he brought with him."

The Lion's eyes flashed to the Shrike, guarded for a moment, before he shrugged one shoulder. "Doesn't seem the type," he commented, and the Shrike narrowed his eyes. That's right, he remembered – Sam Winchester showed remarkable intuition when it came to judging people's actions. The Shrike would be foolish to underestimate him. Sam had the makings of an excellent tactician. "See you later."

Dean grunted again, not looking up from the Shrike's phone, and Sam sighed again, closing the door shut with a soft 'snick'. The Shrike sighed, putting the back of his head against the corner of the radiator again. Figures he would get left behind with the more aggressive of the brothers. Although, so far, Dean seemed content to just ignore him unless he was deliberately aggravating. So maybe they could get through his day without tearing each other's throats out.

Maybe.

 

 

After about two hours, Dean finally huffed, tossing the Shrike's phone to the other end of the couch with an exaggerated exhale, leaning back on the couch far enough that his back cracked loudly. The Shrike's mouth twisted at the sound, but he didn't look away when the Spider's eyes finally turned to him, appraising and calculating. He wasn't afraid of Dean, not in the slightest, and to give him that idea would likely make the other man insufferable.

But Dean didn't seem hostile, now – merely like the Shrike was a thing he'd never seen before and he wasn't sure if he could get close without losing his head. "What exactly are you bred with, anyway?" he finally asked, and the Shrike blinked at the sudden sound of his voice, rough with disuse. "I mean, I know you're a bird. But which one?"

It was an innocent enough question. "A Shrike," he replied, leaning his head back to rest against the radiator corner. The back of his head still throbbed from Dean's blow, but it had settled down and he could at least let his head rest without getting a crick in his neck.

Dean cocked his head to one side, eyes flaring as he thought back through all of the species undoubtedly drilled into him during his training – animals they would work with, fight against, find a natural enemy. Cats and Arachnids and Birds weren't meant to get along. "You got a mate?"

The Shrike's eyes narrowed. "As of right now, no," he replied tersely, rolling his shoulders as instinct demanded; he wished he had real wings, so that he could properly perform a dominance or threat display. Facial expressions were harder for him to master. "They killed the female Sam was meant to breed with." Dean's eyes narrowed at that. "Does that upset you?"

Dean snarled, pushing himself to his feet. It amazed the Shrike, given how spiders leant towards solitary lives and without much contact, how easily Dean sat on his legs again, invading his personal space. Perhaps it was a threat technique, but it worked – he was a bird, used to open air and freedom, and he didn't like anything caging him in, pinning him down. Neither should Dean, but he didn't seem to have a problem with it. Maybe it was a threat display, like the Shrike wanted to do: the files would have to be updated once he brought the Winchesters back, or killed them.

He bared his blood-lined teeth at Dean even as the Spider's hand shoved up against his throat, tilting his head back. Dean's palm was sticky, slick with something that the Shrike distantly recognized as webbing – it smelled almost like Dean's pheromones, sweet and thick, and it dripped down his neck and he felt like he couldn't breathe because of the weight of it.

"How," Dean snarled, his fingers tightening enough that the Shrike choked, growling, "can you work for someone – for something – that would do that? Murder an innocent girl just 'cause Sam wasn't there."

"It's your fault," the Shrike replies, his voice thin because of the weight of the webbing. Dean's hand tightened. "If your brother had been there, she'd have been bred as planned. She didn't have to die." Dean's hand suddenly fell away, but left the sticky webbing behind, and though it was still an uncomfortable weight around the Shrike's neck, he found he could breathe more easily. He leaned forward, darkly pleased at the shocked and wounded look on Dean's face, and could see the hatred turning inward, just as the file said it would: self-deprecating, over-protective, easily wounded. "You went rogue and you dragged your brother down with you."

He was expecting the blow, Dean's knuckles connecting with his jaw and his head snapping upwards. It was worth it, though, to get Dean off of him, pacing away with his hands through his hair and panic in his scent. The Shrike stretched his jaw, tongue tracing the bruised innards of his cheek as he swallowed and tried to rub off the webbing clinging to his neck and shoulder, to no avail.

Then, Dean rounded on him, panic gone and melted into a simmering rage. His fingers flexed by his sides and his posture screamed aggression and anger, but he didn't advance on the Shrike again, and, wincing, the Shrike pulled his legs back up so that he could cross them. Hopefully that meant Dean wouldn't sit on him again.

"What about you, huh?" the Spider demanded, creeping close again, straight at the Shrike this time because he couldn't kick out easily with his legs crossed like this, and the blue-eyed man cursed his own defensiveness. "What if they've got a girl for you and you don't come back?"

The Shrike's eyes narrowed, the question discomforting him more than he would care to admit. Granted, he had never met his mate, never seen her – only knew her name – but he was looking forward to the idea of showing her his nest, his kills, of breeding strong children with her and making Mother proud.

The idea that he would never be able to hadn't occurred to him. He shook his head – no. He would get out of here, and he would slaughter the Winchesters or detain them and bring them back. There was no other option.

Dean's shoulders relaxed, smirk playing across his face when he saw the question hit its mark, landing hard, and the Shrike's eyes were turned away. He laughed. "At least we're free out here," he said, throwing his arms out to either side of him as if to show the Shrike all of their ugly green-orange-yellow paradise. "We can choose, and do what we want, and fuck -."

"Each other?" the Shrike hissed, recovered now, glaring up at Dean. "You, Winchester, are a dead end." Family interests hit strong in Dean, he remembered; he valued safety and comfort and love over the bite of his fangs into another's throat. "And, worse than that, you have torn apart other families as well. She-Hyena had a mate, and she had just birthed pups. Now what will happen to them?"

"You'd be making a lot more impact if you actually gave a shit, Cas," Dean hisses, eyes brightening, threatened and angry. "You think you know everything, just 'cause of your files and your training and the lies spoon-fed to you since you hatched into this God-forsaken life." The Shrike snorted, smirking: Dean didn't believe in God. None of them did. "Damn it, you fucking featherhead, that's not living! Having your whole life chosen for you, acting like it's some fucking God-given destiny -."

"Tell me, Dean," the Shrike murmured, sharp eyes narrowed and refusing to look away from Dean's, "is fucking your brother really choosing? Do you think that, if there wasn't another option, he wouldn't have run away from you?"

Dean merely snarled at him, turning away, and the Shrike let himself smile. There it was; Dean's weak spot. He'd found it. Of course it was Sam – it had to be Sam. "You've robbed him of any other viable mate or life through your selfishness, insect," he hissed, grinning more widely when Dean whirled on him again. "And because of you, he's without family, without a home, without -."

The blow, this time, was unexpected, Dean moving much more quickly than he'd anticipated, his fist landing against Castiel's cheek with a sickening crunch. "I'm his family!" Dean shouted, punching the Shrike again. "I'm all he's got, and I am not letting you," another punch, "or this Mother bitch," another, the Shrike's shoulders curling up to try and block the blow, but the Spider's webbing had hardened and he found he couldn't move or even twist his head to turn away from Dean's punches, "take him away from me!"

"Dean!" Suddenly there was extra light in the room, the door bursting open against Sam's hands and the Lion was quick to run over to his brother, fingers curling over Dean's shoulders and hauling him off of the Shrike's beaten and bloody body. Dean still took another swing at the Shrike, teeth bared and eyes glowing the unnatural green shade that the bound man had found so beautiful before, feral rage and anger making Dean seem somehow stronger than his weight loss and sallow skin would suggest. The Shrike grinned at him as Sam hauled him back, planting himself between his brother and the Shrike with a hand firmly on Dean's chest. "Dean, stop! Stop!"

Dean immediately went still, eyes flashing down to Sam's hand, then up to his brother's face. His fingers were curling into fists still and the Shrike could just make out shreds of webbing dripping down from between Dean's fingers – he wondered how it was made, where it came from. He hadn't noticed any slits or holes on Dean's hands for the webbing to come out of. Maybe it was some form of shedding, like a snake.

Sam was drumming his fingertips against Dean's chest, palm still pressed flat as the two brothers stared each other down. Finally, Dean sagged, pulling away, and grabbed the keys from where Sam had thrown them on the table, along with two manila folders with bold, black 'Winchester, S' and 'Winchester, D' stamped along the sides. "I'm going out," he muttered, words barely intelligible, but it wasn't hard to figure out that he was leaving. The door slammed behind him and the Shrike, with realizing, let out his breath.

Dean was clearly unstable. Perhaps it wouldn't even benefit E.D.E.N. to retrieve him. It would be a mercy killing for the Shrike to end his miserable life.

Sam turned around to look at him, crouching down and cursing when he saw the extent of the damage Dean's hits had done. "Come on," he muttered, pulling the smaller man forward until the Shrike's forehead rested on his shoulder, so he could reach around behind and cut at the zip tie connecting him to the radiator. "Let's get you cleaned up, and you probably need to go to the bathroom…"

The Shrike let the Lion haul himself upright, unable to on his own because of the way his legs were crossed and the fact that his ears were ringing and he felt dizzy. Sam's warmth was a comforting balm and he allowed the younger man to direct him towards the bathroom, fingers of one hand looped tight through the Shrike's bindings, the other opening the door and feeling out for the light before he pushed the Shrike into the bathroom and made him lean against the counter, facing away from the mirror.

His eyesight was compromised like this, blood welling up underneath one eye and dripping down his face. His jaw hurt, too, and he wouldn't be able to bite down hard enough to kill or seriously injure Sam. Now was not the time to try and fight his way free. Besides, Dean might not have left yet, and if he saw the Shrike moving around the motel unescorted he would likely not hesitate in killing or fighting him.

The Shrike sighed, bowing his head, and let himself drift until the sting of cloth soaked in iodine brought him back. He hissed, flinching and glaring accusingly at Sam, who forced a tired smile to his face. "Come on, not like this is the worst thing you've ever felt," he said, with the surety of someone who knew, and the Shrike sighed, gritting his teeth as much as he was able as Sam began to clean him up.

For a while they were both silent, Sam dipping one of the motel hand towels underneath a gentle stream of warm water whenever the cloth got too bloody, until even the day-old dry blood from the Shrike's pistol whipping was gone and only the darkening bruises and tender cuts remained. Dean's knuckles had split his cheek open but it didn't feel as though anything was crushed or broken, and his jaw hurt like a bitch, but it could have been so, so much worse.

The thought made the Shrike pause. Sam and Dean were trained killers – just like he was. If Dean had really wanted to kill him, he would have, without a second's hesitation. Efficiently, swiftly, not bloody and messy like his attack had been. The Shrike refused to believe that it was purely because Dean was rusty – no, his disabling and disarming of the Shrike behind the dumpsters in the city proved that Dean's skills were still sharp, his fighting style deadly and effective.

So, why was the Shrike still breathing?

"Why did you stop him?" he asked after a long moment, and it seemed to startle Sam, who had gotten used to the silence. Blue eyes flashed to the Lion's golden-green, similar to his brothers in that there were many colors mixing in them, a hue the Shrike had not seen in any other species.

The Lion sighed, swallowing, brows drawing together as he licked his lips. He didn't reply immediately, merely continued to drag a dry cloth around the Shrike's mouth, cheek and temple gently in a way that the smaller hybrid found soothing – he was not used to comforting, gentle touches like this. The closest he got to that was the She-Jaguar he sometimes sparred with, as when she would win she would rub her dark mane against his back and chest and lay on him, purring loudly while he tended to his wounds. Mother had never touched him like this nor had his fledgling brothers before he'd killed them. He had never been a tactile creature, but having Sam's large, warm hands on him now; he could see why some animals craved it.

Finally, Sam sighed, and the Shrike opened his eyes again, not realizing he'd closed them for Sam to clean over his nose and the other side of his face. "The genetic mixing they did in Dean…kinda screwed him up a little," Sam said tiredly, like he'd never even dared to give voice to this thought before, and the Shrike pressed his lips together, nodding: he remembered reading the report. Dean's genetic cocktail had been a successful swap, but it had come with setbacks: aggression; mixed mating habits and courting rituals; suspected split personality disorder; paranoia; incidents of self-harm. "Sometimes he has these days where he doesn't even think straight – just kind of goes for the throat, you know?" Sam swallowed again, letting the wet towel fall into the sink as he sighed, bracing himself on the edge of the counter, eyes focused into the white basin. "It can sneak up on him, but I smell it sometimes. And, well, the room smelled like that when I walked in."

The webbing, the Shrike thought, eyes widening in understanding. The sour-sweet smell on him. Of course.

Almost as if Sam had thought the same thing, his eyes moved to the tacky substance still clinging to the Shrike's skin. "That won't come off until it hardens fully," he murmured, gesturing to the Shrike's neck with a grimace of sympathy. "Then it should peel right off. I'll help you with that when it happens."

The Shrike blinked, struck by the offer. "Thank you," he finally murmured, because it was one of those rare things that separated their species, he supposed. Sam half-smiled, straightening up and rolling his shoulders.

"Do you need to go to the bathroom?" he asked, and the Shrike shook his head, honestly glad for the moment for his efficient digestive system and high metabolism that meant very little ever went to waste in his body. Sam, too, seemed a little relieved over the fact that he wouldn't have to play chaperone for that, and he grabbed the Shrike by the zip ties around his wrist again, pushing him out first back into the room. He had the Shrike kneel down again by the radiator, at least this time tying him to the upper bar running up the radiator's side so that the Shrike wasn't stuck with his wrists by the floor. Maybe this way he could at least try lying down.

Dean was back, sitting on the couch as though he had never left – a fact that Sam didn't even acknowledge until the Shrike was secured again. He then turned and walked over to his brother, nudging the edge of the couch with his knee.

The Shrike's eyes widened in shock when Dean's head snapped up, eyes still glowing, teeth bared in a vicious snarl. Sam, to his credit, didn't even seem surprised – he merely nodded, stepping back until Dean stopped growling at him, and moved around so he was sitting on the other side of the table. Dean was bent over the Shrike's phone again, typing in possible passcode phrases with one hand; the other pulling the 'Winchester, D' file onto his lap and flicking it open with his thumb. Sam took the 'Winchester, S' one and began browsing through it as well from his spot on the floor.

The Shrike's eyes narrowed and he remained silent as he did a mental shuffle of things he had been taught about the Winchesters, and had read from their file. Sam and Dean had shown an unhealthy level of co-dependency, even in their youth before Dean had been transferred to the Arachnid group. After, they had distanced themselves somewhat to Mother's apparent satisfaction, but it was clear that their escape and life on the run had done nothing but strengthen the bond again. Dean was the home-maker, the caregiver, the one who had the protective streak so unusual in both felines and arachnids. They both had an intuition that made them skilled hunters and fighters – Dean's sense of sight had been the bare minimum, whereas Sam's excelled, and yet both Sam and Dean showed equal capability in training, the slight edge given to Dean despite his vision problems.

The Shrike cocked his head to one side, trying to piece together what information he had gleaned through observation to put together the big picture – if he didn't know what he was up against, he couldn't possibly succeed.

Despite Dean's protective and caring instincts, Sam had been the one to clean the Shrike up, to remove him from danger and make sure he was at least alive, if not particularly well taken care of. Dean had run away, taking Sam with him, before either of them had reached the usual mating age, which was typically twenty-one to twenty-five depending on the hybrid. Perhaps becoming sexually active changed them – maybe the fact that it was with each other, two dominant and blood-related males instead of females, had changed them even more.

The scent of Dean's webbing was distracting, and the Shrike's head fucking hurt. He wanted to close his eyes and go to sleep, but the sun was glaring at him from the cracked-open curtains and he knew he wouldn't be able to get any sleep worth a damn. Besides, he wasn't in a condition where he needed the conscience reboot and if Dean proved to become hostile again, he wanted to be aware of it as soon as possible.

The scene was wrong. Sam and Dean had been touching each other the entire time he was here – fucking on their bed or Sam rubbing his head against Dean's shoulder, sitting close together, legs touching, something. Even when they were apart, Sam's eagerness to take care of him spoke of a craving for contact, for touch. Nothing like that had been noted in their file but Sam was a Lion, a cat – they were prone to laying together in large groups, nestled in close. If the She-Jaguar was any indication, then the big cats needed touch a lot to stay happy and satisfied.

But they weren't touching, now. And that was wrong, somehow. It made the Shrike uneasy and he wasn't sure why, which only served to piss him off more.

The silence was broken once again by the Shrike's phone ringing. Dean took the phone in hand, standing, and checked the Caller ID. "Mother again," he said, and the Shrike nodded – he didn't have any other contacts in his phone, but Dean didn't need to know that.

Then, the Spider's burning, glowing eyes landed on him, and he grinned, slow and sure, before stalking over to the Shrike and holding it up to his face. "You talk to her," he said, voice low and deadly and sending a small shiver up the Shrike's spine, his fingers clenching, "and if you don't blow it, I won't rip those baby blues out, got it?"

The Shrike nodded, swallowing despite himself. Dean's attack had shaken him, because he still couldn't figure out why Dean hadn't killed him, hadn't even tried. And his eyes were his most valuable weapon, his sight his sharpest sense. Losing it wouldn't kill him, but it would render him useless to E.D.E.N., and to Mother, and that was a fate worse than death in his eyes.

Dean watched him for another second, then hummed quietly and slid the green bar across, answering the call. "Hello, Mother," the Shrike said immediately when Dean pressed the phone to his ear. He could see Sam's head tilted, trying to listen although he was still reading, and Dean was sitting so close that he had no doubt the Spider would be able to hear the exchange.

"Good afternoon, Castiel," came Mother's reply, and he smiled despite himself. She was as close to a balm as he could ever get. "Zachariah just contacted me requesting an update on your mission."

So apparently Dean had been relatively convincing as him. The thought unsettled him more than he thought it should – did his own Mother not recognize when he was in trouble?

His eyes flashed to Dean, who was regarding the Shrike coolly, calmly, like one would examine a well-cooked steak before carving into it. The Shrike liked his lips and took a deep breath.

"I have sighted the Winchesters many times, and made contact once," he said, which wasn't entirely untrue. Dean's hand tightened on his phone and the Spider's upper lip curled back in a warning snarl. "They refused to simply come back with me, so I have begun to track them as per protocol, and am waiting for them to make a wrong move." Again, not entirely untrue. Half-lies were his forte.

Mother hummed gently on the other end of the line, and he could hear a soft clicking as though she was typing away on a keyboard, noting down his report. "Will you be needing back-up, then?"

"No!" he replied, a little too vehemently. It made Dean's eyes glow when he smirked and he could see Sam lift his head, gaze curious. He cleared his throat, forcing his voice to remain neutral. "I am confident I should have them taken care of within the week. It's only been a week, Mother," he added, unable to keep the petulance out of his tone. Wolf had gotten three months before Mother demanded the Shrike check in with him, and he couldn't even get one? And they say mothers don't have favorite children.

She hummed again. "Very well, Castiel. I'll expect a more comprehensive update in a few days." He gave a soft 'Understood' in response, and she hung up. Dean grinned, pocketing his phone, and dragged his hand across the Shrike's neck. Unbidden, the smaller creature flinched, only to gasp in shock when the webbing around his neck was pulled away like dry sticky glue, easily shredded and shed under Dean's hands.

"It's so cute how territorial you are of us," Dean murmured, leaning in close until the Shrike could turn his head and rub their noses together if he wanted to. He remained facing outward more out of stubbornness and pride than anything else. "Don't want anyone else claimin' one of your kills, Cas?"

"You are my assignment," the Shrike responded stiffly, keeping his gaze firmly fixed to one side and not on either brother. "The only reason others should come would be if I was dead or if I requested it." He blinked, then, biting his lip. That had been a foolish thing to confess to them – they shouldn't know whether to have to watch their backs or not. He cursed under his breath, drawing his knees up to his chest and sighing out. He'd have to be more careful.

 

 

"Did you know them?" Sam asked after a while, raising his head from where he had been studiously examining his file, about a half-hour later. Dean remained silent but his head was cocked to one side, attentive, listening. "The others who had come after us. Did you know them?"

"In so far as I cleaned up your mess," the Shrike bit back, rolling his eyes and huffing out another breath. No harm in them knowing that, at least – nothing that the lack of media coverage wouldn't tell them anyway.

Sam's eyes flashed to his brother. "I told you there was someone after us," he growled, and Dean shrugged one shoulder, emphatically lifting a page of his file and ignoring Sam's glare. "That means that…well, shit; you've been tailing us for months, then. Not just a week."

"Not you, specifically," the Shrike murmured, tilting his head back to rest against the radiator. At least with his hands bound higher he was able to scoot closer to the middle of the thing instead of being braced against the edge. It was a small mercy. "Just your kills."

Sam went quiet for another moment, lips pursed out in thought. Then, "Did you know any of them?" he asked again, and the Shrike rolled his eyes at the Lion's persistence. His head hurt, and he wanted to sleep.

He sighed heavily, lifting his eyes upward. He hadn't seen the sky for almost twenty-four hours and it felt like a lifetime. He craved the open air and this motel room with its garish, offensive wallpaper was giving him an almost claustrophobic feeling.

When the Winchesters shrugged, thinking he wouldn't answer, he licked his lips and spoke; "I knew the Owl," he said, eyes lazily tracking over the little threads of cracking paint that were spreading out like a web from the hanging light. The fixture looked precarious, flimsy almost, lamp gently dangling from bare wire without a casing. "We hatched around the same time."

Sam's eyes narrowed in thought. "An Owl," he murmured, looking back to his brother as though he would find the answers in Dean's face. "Tall guy? White hair? Blue eyes?"

"Broken into about a hundred dirty pieces?" Dean finished, baring his teeth in a grin.

The Shrike nodded, unfazed. "Yes, that would be him."

The Spider snorted, ignoring his brother's glare. "He was a tough S.O.B. Got me good right here," he said, turning away, his right hand absently trailing across his left thigh, on the inside. The Shrike's eyes narrowed – what could he have possibly done to get injured there? And he hadn't seen any injury on Dean so far, especially not one so close to a major artery that would have undoubtedly left a mark.

The Shrike's gaze was caught by Sam's sudden stiff posture, his hands white-knuckling the folder in his grip. But he wasn't reading it – his eyes were on Dean, on his supposedly injured thigh, upper lip just barely starting to curl back in anger. In jealousy.

He averted his eyes, thinking back to the interaction with Dean that had gotten him here in the first place. The scent of his pheromones had been damn near debilitating, something that the Shrike had never come into contact with before. And Lions were not known for their forgiving nature – if Dean had used his pheromones to seduce the Owl, draw him close enough that either Sam or Dean could rip him apart…

The Shrike huffed a laugh, grinning despite himself. He was impressed. All on their own, the Winchesters had created the kind of deadly weapon that Mother had been after for years – something irresistible, alluring, and ultimately fatal.

How many others had they killed like this? And what made him different? He could have – would have, undoubtedly, he did not think of himself that highly – succumbed to Dean's pheromones, fallen under their wrathful hands without a second thought. So why hadn't they killed him, too? What were they waiting for?

Dean laughed loudly, then, startling the Shrike out of his thoughts. "Look at this," he said, slapping the back of his hand against his folder, mouth twisted upwards like he couldn't decide whether he wanted to grin or snarl. "These notes, God, it was like they looked at us for two seconds and then made assumptions."

"How do you mean?" Sam asked, turning his attention back to his own file, anger at Dean's injury presumably gone. The Shrike supposed he would be angry, too, if something else had tried to threaten or defile his mate. Although he also knew anyone mated with him should be able to take care of themselves.

Dean shook his head, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "Dean Winchester shows none of the Type-A aggression that we test for. Although he seems capable, there is no reason for his relative passivity. We have yet to find his trigger." The Spider laughed again. "Guess they never saw me on one of my bad days, did they, Sammy?"

The Lion hummed noncommittally. "I don't remember you ever having them, actually," he commented, turning another page in his file. "They kept dosing you up, remember?"

Dean grunted. "Oh, yeah." He scratched at the inside of his arm, eyes blankly staring at the ground as though lost in a memory. Then, he shuddered. "That shit was awful."

"I remember," Sam replied quietly, almost too quietly to hear.

Dean hummed, and then leaned forward, grinning, and tapped his fingers against Sam's file, making the younger Winchester startle, looking up. "Well, go on, what kind of dirt's in yours?" he asked, motioning for Sam to read it aloud.

Sam shrugged one shoulder. "One page is just a list of measurements and stuff – guess I grew a lot and it was surprising them? I don't know. And there's a list of numbers along one side I can't figure out -."

The Shrike knew what those meant. "It's a percentage," he offered, not quite sure why he was doing so when both of them turned to him. "Dean's will have the same. It was the likelihood that you would either try and kill each other, or survive an attack, depending."

"…Huh." Dean frowned, turning back to his file to find the page. "Well, damn."

"…Dean, mine's damn near a hundred the whole way."

"Yeah, I'm getting that," came the reply, frown deepening. "I guess they already had their bets about the stronger brother, right?" Before Sam could reply, Dean's glowing eyes turned to the Shrike again. "How about you? You ever seen your file?"

He bared his teeth in a grin. "I was a straight-A student," he said, defiant, preening, especially when Dean's eyes were glowing so darkly, beautiful almost, the gold in them more prominent when he was angry.

The Spider snorted. "Naturally," he said, throwing his file down and turning back to Sam. "Thank God we got out when we did. I'd rather die than turn into something like him." He pointed at the Shrike almost accusingly, as though he was the cause of all the Winchesters' problems. Then, Dean stood, stretching his arms above his head until his shoulders cracked. "I'm takin' a shower. Watch the little bird, will you?"

"Sure, Dean," Sam replied without lifting his head, and Dean nodded, hesitating only a moment before he disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him most of the way. Only a bare sliver of light peeked through, and the Shrike could hear him undressing and the water turning on. If he turned his head just right, he could see a flash of bare skin and muscled shoulder, too, and he immediately looked away again.

As soon as the shower had been running for long enough, Sam got up and sat down on the couch where Dean had been. The Shrike couldn't think of any reason for it other than he was craving his brother's warmth.

For a long while, the only sound was that of the shower running, Sam returning to reading his and his brother's files, and the Shrike tried to, once again, catch some sleep. However it continued to elude him, and eventually he let out a frustrated huff of breath. "So," he finally asked, breaking the relative silence, "what are your plans for me? You can't keep me locked up here forever, and you both seem to have mixed opinions as to whether I should even be alive or not."

Sam hesitated briefly, before setting his file down and sitting back, running one hand through his hair. "Do you have any siblings, Cas?" he asked.

"Had," the Shrike replied, shrugging one shoulder. "Not anymore."

"Well, okay." Sam gestured vaguely, "Then, like, I don't know – mentors? Friends? People you look up to?"

The other man frowned, cocking his head to one side as he considered. She-Jaguar was a good fighter and she had taught him many techniques outside of his instinctual skillset, but aside from the fleeting company of his nest mates he had not really been socialized like the other hybrids were. He was a bird, he wasn't meant to live in a large group.

He sighed, and shook his head. "Well," Sam continued, apparently unfazed by that, "I have Dean. He's all I have, you know? We…we keep each other human." The Shrike snorted at that, but Sam didn't seem to notice. "And he wants to keep you alive." He shrugged again, and the Shrike's eyes narrowed.

"He has an odd way of showing that," he muttered.

Sam laughed. "You know that if he wanted you dead he'd have killed you. But he didn't, so." Then, the water shut off, and Sam's head lifted as Dean came back out, towel slung loosely around his waist and droplets of water still clinging to his shoulders. His chest was flushed from the heat of the shower, and even with the dark bruises around his eyes, he still looked beautiful, hair sticking up and fluffy already as he carried his dirty clothes to the side of the bed and dropped them, before rooting through his duffle bag for another t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts.

Without a care for modesty, he dropped the towel too and began to get dressed, and the Shrike couldn't tear his eyes away from him. He was curious to study Dean and his pheromones, examine his hands for recesses or slits that the webbing could come out of. He wanted to study Sam, too, explore what other feline traits that Sam might be hiding – for him it seemed to be mostly psychological, the physical changes to him minimal, whereas Dean had taken on weird and wonderful physical changes that the Shrike found fascinating.

When Dean was dressed, he turned to find the Shrike staring at him, and smirked. "Enjoying the show?" he asked, challenging, his arms spread out to either side of him, and the Shrike didn't have an answer for that, so he simply turned away. Dean huffed and threw his towel at the back of Sam's head. "I'm gonna turn in."

"Okay, Dean," Sam replied, pulling the towel down from around his head with a roll of his eyes, and Dean grinned before climbing in under the covers of the bed they had had sex in last night (and there were two beds, he'd just noticed that, why hadn't he noticed that before?) and rolling into a large cocoon in the middle of the dirty sheets. The Shrike supposed it would be like sleeping in his webbing to Dean, simulating the warmth of a Lion pride at the same time. Those clashing instincts must be very confusing at times.

When Dean's breathing had evened out in sleep, and the Shrike could feel his own eyes drooping, that damned sun finally falling out of range of the window, Sam closed his file and stood up, approaching the bound man. Immediately the Shrike tensed up, unsure and wary, but Sam just half-smiled and kneeled down next to him.

"Gotta get that webbing off you," he said in explanation, gesturing to the tacky substance still clinging to the Shrike's neck, and the other man huffed in acknowledgement, tilting his head back to give Sam more room even though every instinct in him screamed otherwise. It would be good to get it off of him – the more it had hardened, the harder it was to move his neck or breathe or swallow properly, and he would be glad to be rid of it.

"How does he make it?" he asked, curious despite himself when Sam's fingers dug in and began to peel. It wasn't uncomfortable, but the rush of cool air against his sensitive, reddened neck did sting, and he hissed a little.

Sam shrugged one shoulder. "I don't really know," he confessed honestly, licking his lips as he continued to work. "I haven't, like…. There's nowhere for it to come out, you know? It's just kind of there." He shrugged one shoulder, shifting his weight onto one knee to better reach across the Shrike's neck and pull more webbing off of him.

"It smells the same as his pheromones," he noted, eyes fixed on Sam's face to gauge his reaction.

The Lion's mouth twisted, and he pulled back, eyes tracking over the Shrike's neck and pulling off small flakes that were stubbornly clinging behind. The Shrike's neck felt tender now, and raw, like he'd shed a layer of skin and now it was soft, more vulnerable. He didn't like the idea of Sam touching his neck, but he didn't have much of a choice at the moment.

"No, it doesn't," Sam finally said, eyes rising to meet the Shrike's, before he stood and carried the flaking pieces of webbing towards the small trash can underneath the table.

The Shrike's eyes narrowed. "But they are connected, aren't they?" he pressed, sitting forward.

Sam sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "Look, you read the file -."

"There was no mention of this kind of fight tactic, Sam," he replied quickly, eager for as much information as he could glean – it was clear that the Winchesters were a unique and fantastic achievement by E.D.E.N., and the more information he could get, the better. His own curiosity was piqued as well – because Dean was clearly a deadly creature with untreated biological imbalance, and yet Sam had survived isolation and time with him. Something inside of Dean that only he knew seemed to decide whether an enemy lived or died – Sam must know, though, must understand it. "You both ran away before any changes after sexual maturity could be recorded, and this is clearly a sexual weapon that Dean has perfected."

"It's not a weapon!" Sam retorted, a little too loudly as he turned to face the Shrike. Immediately both of their eyes flashed towards the Spider, but Dean seemed unaffected, his breathing remaining slow and steady. "It's not a weapon," Sam repeated, softer this time. "It just…happens."

"Like with the Owl," the Shrike replied, knowing he was right when that brief rage passed over Sam's face again. "Like with me."

Sam took a deep breath, shoulders rolling, and let it out slowly, fingers flexing by his sides. "Yes," he replied. "Like with you."

There was another long pause, this look in Sam's eyes like he was trying to decide what to do next, before he hurried to his duffle bag and took out a small penknife. He flicked the blade open and the Shrike went tense, baring his teeth in an instinctual snarl as Sam turned and approached him.

"Hey, easy," Sam muttered, keeping palms open and out as he knelt down beside the Shrike, slicing through the ties that were keeping his wrists bound. At once the Shrike's arms were free, and he winced when the movement jarred his injured elbow.

He should have run, then – lashed out, grabbed the blade from Sam's hand and carved them both bloody. There was no reason for him to stay behind now – he should run back to his car, grab more of his weapons, and come back. But if Sam had gotten to his car, those weapons would likely be gone. If he couldn't grab his phone, he would have no way to contact Mother – he would have to drive back (if Sam had left his keys) to E.D.E.N. with his tail between his legs, and acknowledge that the Winchesters had gotten the best of him. After a week.

He stood slowly, eyes fixed on the blade Sam still held in his hand, and rubbed at his sore wrists were which red and aching from the tight grip the zip ties had taken. There was a tense silence between them, but Sam was standing between the Shrike and the door, blade held out as a reminder, and the Shrike didn't know, if he tried to leave, if Sam would let him.

"So," he said, cocking his head to one side, eyes narrowed and appraising. "There a Step Two to this plan of yours?"

Sam sighed. "Look, I know what I smelled. Dean's gonna go into Rut soon, and when that happens, if you're around, he'll either kill you or -." Sam broke off, grimacing then, and it didn't take a lot of imagination for the Shrike to put an image together from that. "He doesn't want you dead, and I'm not letting you near him if I don't trust you, and I don't trust you. So…" He stepped back, clearing the way to the door.

The Shrike blinked, but didn't move, too suspicious to go just yet. "Why would you do that?" he demanded. "I will just call for reinforcements, or come back with more weapons." It was a lie, but Sam didn't need to know that.

The Lion smirked a little, shaking his head. "You're kind of proud, you know that?" he asked, and the Shrike didn't have time to contemplate what in the Hell that was supposed to mean, before Dean stirred in the bed next to them. They were standing quite close to the two bottom corners of it, and so when the Spider sat up, green eyes flaring open and glowing brightly enough that the Shrike winced, there was no doubt that he saw both of them, even in the darkness.

"Shit," Sam muttered to himself, and grabbed for the Shrike before he could shy away. "Get in the bathroom! Go!"

They only made it a few steps before Dean was on them, low animal snarl that rose the hairs on the back of the Shrike's neck spilling from his mouth. His weight landed on the Shrike's shoulders, mostly, sending him to his knees with a harsh jolt that made him hiss.

From there, training kicked in. The Shrike rolled onto his back, elbow sweeping out to try and catch Dean in the jaw, but Dean took hold of his arm and ducked under, struck a glancing blow against the Shrike's shoulder. The Shrike growled at the hit, managed to roll onto his back but then Dean was sitting on his legs, his hands on the Shrike's shoulders and his teeth at his throat, and he heard Sam's worried shout of 'Dean!' before his hand caught Dean's jaw, forcing his mouth back before he could sink his teeth in.

Dean snarled, and when the Shrike sucked in a harsh breath, winded and still struggling with the powerful creature bearing down on him, that was when he smelled it – the pheromones, the spice of them. They did smell different, now that he had a chance to be up close to it – stronger, somehow, more like a territorial marking than a mating scent, but it was just as good, awfully good, and it hit the Shrike just as strongly. The Shrike swallowed, his hips lifting without his consent to grind against the warm dampness he could feel spreading from between Dean's legs, shuddering at the thought of being buried inside such an eager mate.

Dean stilled at that, breathing out harshly. He leaned in to press his nose against the Shrike's neck, where it was still tender and sore from his webbing, and breathed in deeply. The Shrike shifted his grip to Dean's throat, a warning hold should the creature turn violent again. "There you are, little bird," the Spider growled, low and sending a shiver up the Shrike's spine.

He snarled, surging up against Dean's body, desperate and eager to get closer to the source of such an amazing scent. His cock was hard and heavy between his legs, demanding he sink into Dean, fuck him, break him, mate with him – and it was wrong, Dean was male and he was broken and not a good mate, but he was strong as well, and clever, and powerful, and wet. He had to be willing, to be so wet.

They went rolling, and Sam joined in, and they ended up in a sprawling mass of teeth and claws, Sam braced behind the Shrike who was kneeling between Dean's legs. Sam's strong arms wrapped around him from behind, hauling him back, but the Shrike was unstoppable now – in the end, Sam could only wrap his hand around the Shrike's mouth to make sure he didn't rip Dean's throat out as the Shrike tore at Dean's soaking underwear, freed his own erection from his slacks and thrust inside.

Dean clawed at him, howling in a mix of anger and outrage, but his cock was hard and lying flat against his stomach, and the Shrike reached down, wrapping his fist tight around it until Dean purred and bucked up.

"Mm, yeah, just like that, Cas," Dean growled, nails scratching down his chest through his clothes, head tilted back, and Castiel – he wasn't the Shrike anymore, he was broken, broken just like these fucking Winchesters were – snarled against Sam's hand, fucking forward as deep as he could while the Lion held him back, other hand curled around his hip so that he didn't thrust too hard, rut too deeply.

Sam's warmth blanketed Castiel – God, how could he ever look Mother in the eye after this? – his arms easily caging the smaller creature in, and whenever Castiel pulled back from Dean's heat he could feel the outline of Sam's erection against his back. It made him snarl again, twisting to try and bite at the meat of Sam's hand, but then Sam moved his grip to Castiel's sensitive throat and he had no choice but to yield to the pressure, or risk choking.

His nails dug into Dean's shoulders, and when Dean clawed at him again, his grip was slick and sticky with webbing. Fuck, his entire body was soaking wet, permeated with that scent that drove Castiel insane, and he wanted to consume.

He twisted his hand, stroking Dean's cock with an almost painfully tight grip, but that didn't stop Dean from shuddering underneath him, letting out a long, low breath, his glowing eyes half-lidded and focused on Castiel, Sam behind him, as he came. His body clenched tightly around Castiel's cock, earning a low groan and a shudder from the older man, as he thrust deep inside of Dean and rutted, following along soon after.

As soon as he was done, as if Sam was just waiting for the moment, the Lion hauled him back and off of his brother's body. The hand around his throat stayed, pressing down as a warning and a punishment as Castiel clawed at Sam's arm, snarling and snapping his teeth in warning.

"Stay down," he hissed, his long hair falling forward, hiding his face, but Castiel's sharp eyes still caught the faint glimmer of fear in them. "This is for your own good. Fuck's sake, stay down."

Dean's snarl made them both go still, the older Winchester appearing in Castiel's vision over Sam's shoulder. Without a word the Spider nudged at his brother's shoulder, ducking his head underneath Sam's arm, purring loud enough that when he braced one web-tacky hand against Castiel's chest, he could feel the reverberations against his heart.

Dean straddled him, pressing back against Sam's body. Sam seemed at a loss of what to do – this, somehow, was a situation he was not prepared for, had never been seen before, and Castiel had known what to do – his instincts had called out to him, surely they must be speaking to Sam as well.

He reached forward, gripping Dean's hips with gentle but firm hands, and sat up just a little so that Dean had to lean back, and so that Castiel could wrap one hand around Dean's mouth to stop him from biting. "Mate with him, Sam," he urged, not even sure why he was speaking now, but Dean's purr got louder, the arch of his back more prominent, and with shaking fingers Sam obeyed, undoing his jeans and pushing them down to his thighs so that he was able to guide his cock into his brother's entrance, sinking in just as easily as Castiel had.

"This has never -. He's never let me do this before," Sam murmured, sinking in as deep as he could go, one hand bracing his weight and the other curled around Dean's hip, subtly pulling him back so that Sam could rut deeper.

Castiel frowned; he'd seen them having sex, he knew that was not true. In fact, it was only natural that Dean would play the part of the female, given the way his body was built. "I mean during a Rut," the Lion explained at Castiel's confused expression. "He's never let me…during a Rut…"

"Sam," Dean's voice came, tense, demanding, muffled behind Castiel's palm, and the Lion swallowed, nodding through Dean couldn't see, forehead resting against Dean's back as he started up a rhythm that had the three of them shaking.

Dean's hands curled around Castiel's forearm, pulling his hand away, and Castiel sucked in a breath, tensing up and pulling back so that he could look Dean in the eye. The Spider's eyes were still glowing, but not as gold anymore – more of the pretty green shades shining out as he smirked, baring teeth. "Welcome to the nest, little bird," he said, somehow making the words sound like a threat, and Castiel growled back at him, knotting his fingers in Dean's sweat-soaked t-shirt and pulling him in for a kiss.

Somehow even that was a clash, a fight for dominance that Castiel was determined not to lose. "I hate you," he snarled when there was time for breath, corners of his mouth quirking up when his teeth sank into Dean's lip and the salt-tang of blood exploded on his tongue and Dean just moaned. "I'm gonna rip you apart."

Dean threw his head back onto Sam's shoulder, laughing. "Careful, Cas, you sound almost human," he said, smearing more webbing across Castiel's neck, through his hair, sticky and tacky and making Castiel's skin tingle whenever it touched.

Sam growled softly behind Dean, his fingers white-knuckling his brother's flesh. "Dean," he hissed, baring his teeth against Dean's skin. "I'm -."

"Do it," Dean ordered, turning around to nuzzle at the side of Sam's face, pressing a sucking kiss to his jaw. Sam shuddered behind him, and Castiel's nostrils flared at the sudden increase of blood in the air – Sam had ripped Dean open again, and Dean had let him – and yet, under it all, the scent of Dean's pheromones was as strong as it had ever been. Already Castiel wanted him again, could feel his cock twitching, trying to rise, so when Sam pulled out Castiel didn't hesitate to roll Dean over onto his stomach and spread him open, licking at the blood and slick and come that seeped out.

Sam gave a soft, warning growl, his heavy body blanketing Castiel's and preventing him from moving. The scent of sweat and musk was covering both of the Winchesters, and Castiel tilted his head, some primal instinct in him driving him to open his mouth against Sam's and shove the combined taste of Dean into his mouth.

And Sam kissed him back, fingers dragging through the webbing on Castiel's skin that smelled so strongly of Dean's pheromones. "Mate," he whispered, like it was a revelation, and it was there, suddenly, that Castiel understood – the reason Dean had reacted so strongly to him, the reason he hadn't been slaughtered on sight. Dean – and by extension, Sam – saw him as a potential mate, someone strong and powerful to build a nest with.

He couldn't go home after this – half-lies might have been his forte, but Mother would see straight through him if he went back and tried to say that they had escaped from his sight. And he would not be able to bring them back – the scent of Dean's pheromones was a strong, addictive thing that he knew would debilitate him at the first sign of him trying to kill them. He was stuck; he was broken, and ruined, falling because he flew too close to the sun.

He huffed a harsh laugh, pulling away and resting his forehead against Sam's shoulder. "Damn you both to Hell," he said tersely, and Dean laughed again, sitting up.

"It's not all bad, Cas," he said, pulling the older man close to him. Castiel didn't have the heart to fight him – it was late, there was no light anymore, and his head hurt like a bitch from more than Dean's hits earlier in the day. Everything had changed in so short a time and it was because he was weak, he was unprepared, he hadn't known -. "At least you didn't die a virgin."

The sound of Dean's heartbeat was soothing, and Castiel turned his face to breathe deep the scent coming off of Dean's sweaty neck. The webbing was already drying on his skin, subtly tingling and reeking of Dean's mating oil and Sam's musk, but it was a background sensation that he could easily ignore. His body craved sleep and he saw no good reason anymore to deny it that. He fell asleep with Sam's warmth pressed against his side and Dean's purr lulling him down.

 

 

The next morning, Castiel woke up cocooned in clean-smelling sheets, the cheap duvet cover crinkling slightly as he sat up. He had also, he noticed, woke up last, because when he was upright and looked around, he saw the Winchesters perched back on the couch, as though they had been there all night, thighs pressed together and looking over the many sheaves of paper that made up their lives in E.D.E.N.

His mouth twisted. He had a file just like it – what would it say after today? Would there be, in big red letters, the word 'Condemned' across the cover like Sam's and Dean's were? He had no idea. He had no idea what to do.

As if sensing his gaze, Dean's eyes flashed up, and he grinned. "Hey, songbird's awake," he said, nudging Sam's body with his elbow. "Come join us." He patted the other side of him where there was still space on the couch.

Castiel huffed, but got up and walked over slowly, Sam's eyes on him the whole way. He hesitated on the edge of the couch and then gently nudged the cushion with his knee like he had seen Sam do. Dean smirked, and Sam nodded, so he took it as permission to sit down. "The whole world's your web, isn't it?" he asked – that must have been how Dean always seemed to know where he was, if he was moving. He was a spider; of course it would make sense that he would feel things through the ground, through touch – that must have been why his training results were so good despite his poor eyesight.

Dean didn't answer with anything more than a grin, and Castiel sighed, looking back down. His phone sat, canted and untouched, on the table, and he reached down and picked it up. Dean dropped the file to watch him key in his passcode and go into his contacts. He pressed down the little phone icon next to the word 'Mother', and pressed the speaker button.

After a few rings, she answered, and Castiel held the phone close to his mouth, uninjured elbow resting on his knee. "Hello, Castiel," she said, sounding almost surprised. "News already?"

"The Winchesters are dead," he replied, grinning at the almost synchronized drop of folders in his periphery, Dean and Sam fixing wide, shocked eyes on him. "I neutralized them late last night, and just finished taking care of the bodies now." He paused, chewing on his lower lip, eyes dipping down. "I am sorry I could not bring them back, Mother. I know how big of an asset they were."

"We can make more," Mother replied, as though their deaths meant nothing. It made something twinge inside of Castiel – how can two people have changed his life so momentously and yet mean so little to another person? It didn't make sense. "I will need a brief description now, for the records."

He had expected this. "Dean Winchester showed mastery of a pheromone-based chemical weapon that was not in the files," he explained. "I suspect it was due to his genetic mixing. Sam, similarly, showed personality traits that I was not expecting. Perhaps it was exposure to the outside world, perhaps it was exposure to Dean, I'm not sure."

"We were aware that Dean's genetic coding could cause personality and physical side-effects, Castiel," Mother said, making Castiel frown, fingers curling tighter around his phone.

"Why wasn't I warned, then?" he demanded before he could stop himself. "And the others? If they had known, perhaps they wouldn't have succumbed, they wouldn't have died."

There was a pause on the other end of the phone, long enough for Castiel to snarl, just softly, under his breath, before Mother answered; "That wasn't a problem for you, was it, Castiel? You're not sounding like yourself."

He froze for a moment, eyes widening. Oh, no, she was suspecting him. His hand tightened. He couldn't do this – he should kill them, confess his lie and return to Mother, return home. He should – he could do it, they were right there, vulnerable throats and soft skin and not a weapon in sight. He could kill one of them, if not both, and seriously injure the other at least.

"It was a…difficult case," he replied shortly, forcing himself to unwind. Dean's hand flattened across his own, where his nails had curled to dig into his own leg, and Castiel forced himself not to snap and growl at the other man. "I apologize. I was up well into the night. I'm not used to it."

Another pause. "Very well," Mother said, her tone brisk, apparently satisfied. "I will be expecting you here within the week. Meg is very excited to meet you."

Castiel's eyes closed at the name. Meg, his supposed mate. He licked his lips, and answered softly, "I will see you soon, Mother," before he hung up the phone. Then, he stood, and placed it on the ground, smashing it under the heel of his shoe until it was shattered into an unrecognizable hunk of metal and glass.

"Uh, Cas?" Sam hazarded, brows raised when the other man was done. "You okay?"

"I need a shower," he announced, rolling his shoulders and disappearing into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. There were no windows in the bathroom and no usable items that could be made into weapons, so the Winchesters weren't worried that he would try to escape – besides, if his word held, then they apparently would have no reason to run anymore.

He'd just set them free.

Dean laughed, setting the folder down, and sat back with one arm slung around Sam. "Good Cop, Bad Cop," he said, throwing Sam a wink. "Gets them every damn time."

 

 

Castiel grunted, hefting the heavy body across his shoulders, and stalked into his warehouse. His nest was the same as when he had left it before, a little bit more rot set in around the edges, flies buzzing at the newer carcasses and bugs eating at the bodies they could reach, but other than that it was untouched. Neither Mother nor any of her agents, theoretically, knew about the place, and Castiel was glad that it hadn't been discovered in his absence.

He threw it down onto a cement block, and propped it up to rest against the Wolf's legs. He grinned, tapping the pale face lightly with his knuckles. "Bad luck," he said to the corpse, his eyes skating over the rest of the bodies as he stood.

A low whistle rang out behind him. "Nice digs."

Castiel turned around, his expression schooled into one of indifference as Dean approached him. "These trophies?" he asked, eyebrow arched. "Hey, Sammy, come 'ere. These are…"

"Your kills," Castiel supplied, digging his hands into his trench coat and shrugging one shoulder. Dean fixed him with a look, eyes unreadable and dark, as Sam approached and sniffed tentatively at the nearest body; the She-Hyena, her dark hair falling forward and obscuring most of the mess that the Winchesters had made of her face – dragged behind a car until she'd died. Horrible way to go.

"'S like a shrine," Sam muttered, his expression giving nothing away, similar to his brothers. "Where would we have gone, had you killed us?"

Castiel bared his teeth in a grin. "Front and center," he said, lifting his chin, and Dean laughed, shaking his head, and chuffed Castiel under the jaw.

"Perfect place for us," he said, pulling the other man in by his hair for a deep, harsh kiss that left Castiel's mouth tasting of blood. "C'mon, let's get the Hell outta here before the next one finds you, hmm?"


End file.
